Metal from Heaven by August Clarke

Author:August Clarke [Clarke, August]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy; high fantasy; revenge story; revenge plot; science fantasy; political fantasy; industrial fantasy; body horror; climate fiction; retrofuturism; steampunk; low fantasy; high fantasy; labor fiction; labor politics; unions; class politics; courtly intrigue; environmentalism; industrialization; lesbian fiction; LGBTQ fantasy; queer fantasy; queer fiction; Scapegracers; h.a. clarke; hannah abigail clarke; h. a. Clarke; the scapegracers; scratch daughters; feast makers; industrial fantasy; eco-fantasy; unionizing; union politics; workers rights; debut novel; queer; lesbian; vengeance; strike
Publisher: Erewhon Books
Published: 2024-10-22T00:00:00+00:00

Goss Dignity Chauncey, to Perfection’s right, mirrored me. She traipsed a hand beneath Perfection’s skirt and looked not at Perfection, but at me. Her eyes were dead blue under her spray of red eyelashes. Eerie eyes, milky corpse eyes, spectral pale like a revenant’s. It looked like her pupils were a too-pale shade of blue. They reflected nothing. Dignity’s hand drifted against mine. A look flickered across her face, I couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or amusement. The corner of her mouth flickered. She mouthed, Hello Fingerbluffs.

Perdita Perfection reclined in her chair. She folded her hands politely and rested them on the table, rocked her head back, parted her pink mouth with a sigh. She was adorable. I wanted to thrash her. I blinked, looked back at Dignity, at the heir to the man who’d ordered the deaths of everybody I’d ever met before the age of twelve, at every promise of Ignavian progressivism condensed into one mortal girl, and had no idea how to impress her. Surely this couldn’t impress her. I needed to impress her so that I could kill her father. What was I to do?

Dignity hooked our index fingers together. She tossed her head to the side, nodded at a door out of the courtyard that led into some cavernous recess of this godless play-temple of a house.

It occurred with a jolt that if I took off even my gloves they’d kill me.

I had tattoos everywhere. Everywhere. My identity adorned my chest. I had a whip spider tattooed on my belly, on the stretch of muscle between my navel and my pubic hair. If I took my clothes off, Lady Atrocity would take it as kill me immediately. What had I thought? Had I expected propriety from the baron class? Perdita Perfection Vaughn wasn’t even a baron, she was a princess, and I had no concept of how to even begin to anticipate the actions of a Roystonian brutality princess. Fucking at the table? She’s a princess. Why not?

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